The wily lawyer had erected as strong a verbal fence as was possible on such short notice, and for a moment it looked as if Bishop's frankness would not attempt to surmount it; but it did, in a fashion.
“When I heerd that, Perkins, it was natural fer me to wonder why you, you see—why you didn't tell them about the railroad.”
The sallow features of the lawyer seemed to stiffen. He drew himself up coldly and a wicked expression flashed in his eyes.
“Take my advice, old man,” he snarled, as he threw down his pen and stared doggedly into Bishop's face, “stick to your farming and don't waste your time asking a professional lawyer questions which have no bearing on your business whatever. Now, really, do I have to explain to you my personal reasons for not favoring the Tompkins people with a—I may say—any piece of information?”
Bishop was now as white as death; his worst suspicions were confirmed; he was a ruined man; there was no further doubt about that. Suddenly he felt unable to bridle the contemptuous fury that raged within him.
“I think I know why you didn't tell 'em,” was what he hurled at the lawyer.
“You think you do.”
“Yes, it was beca'se you knowed no road was goin' to be built. You told Pete Mosely the same tale you did me, an' Abe Tompkins unloaded on 'im. That's a way you have o' doin' business.”
Perkins stood up. He took his silk hat from the top of his desk and put it on. “Oh yes, old man,” he sneered, “I'm a terribly dishonest fellow; but I've got company in this world. Now, really, the only thing that has worried me has been your unchristian act in buying all that land from the Tompkins heirs at such a low figure when the railroad will advance its value so greatly. Mr. Bishop, I thought you were a good Methodist.”
“Oh, you kin laugh an' jeer all you like,” cried Bishop, “but I can handle you fer this.”